I Am Not Alone
by BunnieGal
Summary: Feliciano begins to be more independent, but all of that changes when he suddenly comes down with a horrible fever. (NOTE: This story is kind of experimental. I kind of wanted to see where this would go, so... here it is!) Rated K plus, just in case.
1. Chapter One

"_Italy," Germany said, pulling my attention away from the picture I was drawing. "Come with me."_

"_Sure!" I responded as I followed him to the large room where our meetings were usually held. I couldn't help but notice that Japan was missing. "Wait… where's Japan?"_

"_He will not be joining us today," Germany clarified. "Just sit down for a moment."_

_The tone of his voice was more serious than usual, so I wasted no time obeying his command._

"_Italy, I know that this war has been very hard on you, what with all of the fighting going on, not to mention how much pressure you are facing. I want you to know that, if you do not want to, you do not have to choose to be on my side."_

"_I know I don't have to," I replied. "but I want to."_

"_No matter what happens, you truly want to?"_

"_Yes."_

"_Then that makes this even worse."_

_My mind filled with several questions, but I quietly waited for him to continue._

"_You can no longer be one of the Axis Powers. I am sorry, Italy."_

_I sat there with my mouth hanging open. He had told me this: I was not required to be an Axis Power, and I was not __**allowed**__ to be one, either. One top of that, his apology had seemed rushed, as if he wasn't being sincere!_

"_But… but why not?"_

_Germany took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Anytime he did that, I knew that he was either stressed out or frustrated. Right now, he seemed to be both._

"_It's just that… your fighting skills are… not exactly bad, but... they're not exactly what I would call 'excellent,' either."_

"_But Germany, I can fix that!"_

"_Italy…"_

"_I'll run extra laps and everything!"_

"_Italy…"_

"_Please, please, no!"_

"_Italy..." he said louder than before._

"_Y-Yes?"_

"_There's nothing you can do. Japan and I have already made our decision."_

"'_Japan and I... our decision…' There's nothing I can do?"_

"_Italy, I'm sorry!"_

"_Why would you do this?"_

"_I'm not the one who called the meeting!" Germany barked. "It was his idea!"_

"_And you went through with it?"_

"_It's not that I wanted to!"_

"_But you still did."_

"_It's not my fault that you're a wimp!"_

"_I know that I can be a wimp sometimes, but please, PLEASE let me stay!"_

"_Italy…" a soothing voice cooed. I was too wrapped up in my pleading to notice._

"_I'm so sorry!"_

"_Italy…"_

"_Please forgive me!"_

"_Italy!"_

My heart was racing rapidly, my cheeks were wet with fresh tears, and my breathing was quick. I opened my eyes to find that Germany was leaning over me with a concerned expression on his face. His blue eyes became even more worried as he checked my pulse.

"Another nightmare?" he asked, and I nodded. "Three nights in a row… that's odd."

I had to agree. The first night had been about Japan, the second night had been about Romano, and last night's had been about Germany _and_ Japan. The nightmares each had something in common: The person had betrayed me, and I had felt guilty. That was already my biggest fear; why did those nightmares have to make it (almost) a reality?

Germany rested his hand on my forehead before jerking it away quickly. "Hold on a second," he said. "I'm going to go get my thermometer." He disappeared through my bedroom door, and then the front door of the apartment. At times like these, I was glad that we lived in the same duplex.

He returned shortly with some stick thing in his hand. "Open wide," he commanded as he pushed it under my tongue. It laid here for a few seconds until it made a few beeping noises, and then he leaned in closer to read it.

"You're staying in bed today," he said.

"Why?"

Germany took the thing out of my mouth and showed me its screen. "That…" He paused and gestured toward the number. "is your temperature."

If it weren't for the fact that I had just discovered that I had a fever, I would've laughed at Germany's overdramatic-ness. There was one "slight" (more like "HUGE") problem: I had a temperature of forty degrees.

"Forty degrees?"

"I'm afraid so."

"I can't be sick today!"

"We don't have any training sessions or meetings to attend to."

"You're right, but I have so much to do today! I've got to give Romano the recipe for America's lasagna, I need to return Japan's book that I borrowed, I have to go to the store for when Spain comes over, and I need to plan for the rest of the week, not to mention-"

"Italy," Germany interrupted. "Relax for a moment. Take a few deep breaths. Everything's going to be fine. There are no special events scheduled for the next couple of weeks, so you have plenty of time to do some of those things that you've planned. If you have anything that needs to be done promptly, I'll take care of it. For now, you need to focus on one thing and one thing only: Resting and getting better."

"You're sure about this?"

"Positive."

I couldn't help but feel relieved, but at the same time, I also felt kind of guilty. This wasn't the first time that he had to come and bail me out. Still, as long as it didn't bother him, I was happy.

* * *

**I know this is short, but as I said before, this is pretty much just an experiment to see how good I am at writing thing from the main character's point of view. This was originally going to be a one-shot (even though I'm not very fond of those), but I actually think that this has potential. Yay!**

**Please review!**  
**Thank you!**  
**~BunnieGal~**

**P.S. You may wonder how Feliciano can have a fever since his temperature is only forty degrees. In European countries, they do not use Fahrenheit; they measure temperatures by Celsius. 40 degrees Celsius is the equivalent of 104 degrees Fahrenheit. In other words, Feliciano has a horrible fever. I'm so sorry, Feli!**


	2. Chapter Two

**Before you read this, let me tell you that this chapter is from Prussia's point of view. No one can have a story without Prussia.**

* * *

"What are we having for breakfast?" I asked as I walked down the hallway. "I'm starving."

When there was no reply, I ran to West's room to see if he was still asleep. His bed was neatly made, so he couldn't have been asleep. Maybe he had gone to buy something after going to Feliciano's. Even so, he would've told me. Someone as awesome as I should not have to worry about their not-as-awesome brother.

"Huh... that's odd," I said to Gilbird. "West always makes breakfast on Saturdays. What's even more strange is that he was only going to Feli's for a moment. It's been an hour. I don't think I can wait any longer!"

He chirped in agreement.

"Oh well. How does cereal sound?"

TIME SKIP...

As I finished my cereal, I heard my phone ring.

"Hello?" I asked.

"Prussia," my brother said. "I probably won't be home until tomorrow."

"Why not?"

"Italy has come down with a horrible fever."

"By 'horrible', do you mean 37.1?"

"I wish."

"Okay, what do you mean by 'horrible'?"

"Forty degrees."

There was a long pause as I tried to think of what to say. How are you supposed to answer that?

"Hey, uh, Gil?"

"Yeah?"

"I have to go... Lovino is here."

"Okay. Bye, West."

"Bye."

An awkward silence filled the room. What was I going to do all day?

I suddenly remembered something. Francis and Antonio were supposed to come over today, but Francis would probably want to make sure that Feliciano was alright. Did he even know that Feliciano was sick? I sighed and picked up my phone, knowing that it was unawesome of me to have to cancel at the last minute. Our plans would just have to wait.

* * *

**I know, I know, it's mostly dialogue. I was kind of in a rush to finish this since I really wanted to make up for my lack of chapters on Brotherly Love. That and I lack inspiration.**  
**Please review!**  
**~BunnieGal~**


	3. Chapter Three

**Before I you read the chapter, let me give you a bit of a backstory here: A few days before Feliciano got sick, Matthew and Alfred both came down with horrible colds, and ("ironically"), fevers. Their fevers weren't quite as horrible as Feliciano's; they were about 101-103 degrees Fahrenheit, which is still pretty bad. Francis agreed to take care of Alfred and Mattie, and he also promised to do any work that they had so they could get plenty of rest.**  
**WARNING: This is mostly just a filler chapter. I thought it would be kind of fun to write it from ****France's point of view, and the opportunity presented itself. I kind of had a vision about how I ****wanted everything to happen, so that's why this is much more-or-less long than it should be.**

**Gosh, who knew that chapter intros could be so fun?**  
**Anyway, here it is...**  
**Chapter Three of _I Am Not Alone!_  
**

* * *

The chorus of _Paris Is Indeed Splendid _came blasting through the speaker of my phone as I dried off from my shower. Before I had a chance to reach it, the answering machine clicked on.

"Dude, hey! This is America... on France's phone... don't ask why. Anyway, leave a message, and he will get back to you as soon as possible!"

I cringed. How long had that been my voicemail greeting?

"Awesome voicemail thing you got there," Gilbert teased. "but... something not-so-awesome has happened. We can't have our meeting."

"Why not?" I asked my phone, and it responded quickly.

"Feliciano has a fever, and I want to help West take care of him. I thought that you might want to know in case you wanted to see him or something. I'll be home for a few more hours if you want to come before I go to Italy's. So... yeah."

I heard the sound of a phone hanging up.

"That's just perfect," I said sarcastically, pulling on a shirt. "First Matthew, then Alfred, and now Feliciano. Could this day get any worse?"

My phone rang again.

"Hello?"

"Hey... is France there?"

"Yes, this is he. May I ask who's calling?"

"It's Feliciano."

His voice had sounded so weak and depressed that I hadn't recognized it. He almost sounded like he had been crying.

"Oh, okay. Are you feeling well?"

"I'm feeling fine, but Germany says that I have a temperature."

"I heard."

"You did?"

"Yes, Prussia told me. Is he over there?"

The other end of the line was silent.

"Feliciano?"

"O-Oh... yes?"

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm... fine. I have to go; Lovino's here."

"Okay. Bye."

"Before you go, um... France?"

"Yes?"

"If... if you want to... you can..."

The other end was silent.

"Feliciano?"

No response.

"Feli?"

No response.

"Italy, answer me!"

"It appears that Italy is... asleep."

I would recognize that deep voice anywhere. It was Germany.

"Hey, Ludwig?"

"Yes?"

"Is there something going on with Feli?"

"What do you mean?"

"We were talking, and he just got quiet all of a sudden. Before he fell asleep, I mean."

"He has been very tired this morning. I have a feeling that he didn't sleep well last night."

"Oh, that would explain it."

"Yes... hey, uh, Francis. I have to go. Lovino and Antonio are talking to each other on the phone again, and who knows what kind of bickering that would lead to?"

I chuckled.

"Okay. Bye, Ludwig."

"Bye, Francis."

I understood that Feliciano had a fever and that he was weaker than usual, but he was never quiet... unless he was asleep. Maybe Ludwig was right. Maybe he had fallen asleep while we were talking, and I had woken him up suddenly, which would explain why it took him a while to respond.

I couldn't ignore a nagging feeling that told me something just wasn't right about this. Sure, it is normal to be tired when you're sick, especially for Italy... but he was never this tired. Never. Once again, I tried to convince myself that Ludwig was speaking the truth.

That seemed like a pretty legitimate excuse, but something still didn't seem right.

Perhaps I was overreacting. I _did_ have a tendency to worry when any of my family members were sick, especially when I would be looking after two of them. Matthew and Alfred had both come down with horrible colds along with fevers, and I had offered to take care of them as well as any work that needed to be done.

Since I was his father, I had lots of practice in taking care of Matthew. With such a cold climate, he seemed to get sick quite often. I could take care of him easily.

As for Alfred, I wasn't so sure. I figured that I should just do the same thing for him as I did for Matthew: Check his temperature often, allow him to rest, comfort him if he was upset, and (of course) serve him meals when it was time.

The problem was, Alfred hardly ever got sick, so this must have been something bad. He might have a worse cold than Matthew did, or he might be more depressed than Matthew was (which wasn't much, so that was bound to happen), or he might have a worse fever than Matthew did.

I suddenly remembered that I had forgotten to take their temperatures. I quickly threw on a pair of jeans, brushing off the fact that I wasn't wearing my casually-formal attire. I needed to hurry!

I ran into Matthew's room, where Alfred was also staying. It was a good thing that I had bought him twin beds when he was younger. Otherwise, I don't know where Alfred would stay. *I definitely was not going to give up my bed.

I grabbed my thermometer and walked over to Matthew's bed.

"Matthew," I said as I gently shook him. "it's time to take your temperature."

Surprisingly, he was already awake. I hadn't expected him to be awake; this was early for him. He opened his mouth as I stuck the thermometer under his tongue. We both waited in an awkward silence before the screen blinked with his temperature.

"What does it say?" Matthew asked after I pulled it out of his mouth.

"Thirty-eight point three," I replied. "Not as bad as it was yesterday."

"That's good."

I walked to the bathroom to rinse off the thermometer. As I walked, I began to hum the tune of _Marukaite Chikyuu. _For some strange reason, that song always cheered me up. Not that I was depressed or anything. It was just kind of stunning to realize how much Matthew had grown up.

Now I was sounding like Arthur when he talks about Alfred.

When I returned to the room, Alfred was snoring. I hated to wake him up from his deep sleep, but at the same time, I had to get his temperature. He wouldn't get _too_ angry with me for waking him up.

I sat down on the bed and gently nudged him. I didn't receive any response, so I tried again. This time, the American's blue eyes fluttered open.

"Sit up," I commanded, and he obeyed. "Open wide."

He opened his mouth, and we repeated the same ritual that Matthew and I had. Complete with an awkward silence and everything.

This was strange. Although he was an adult, Alfred would usually be talking his head off by now. I shrugged. Maybe the fever was getting to him.

The thermometer blinked, and I look it out.

"Um... Alfred?"

"Yes?"

"I think you might want to stay in bed today... probably all day."

"Okay, but why?"

I showed him the thermometer.

"Thirty-nine point four? Shouldn't I be frozen to death or somethin'?"

"What?"

"That's freakin' cold!"

I suddenly remembered that he doesn't use the same temperature measurement that I do.

"That's one hundred three degrees in your country."

Complete silence.

"Alfred?"

"You've gotta be kidding me."

"I mean, it's fine and all. I just thought that you should know."

"How am I going to be a hero if I have a fever?"

"Heroes sometimes get sick."

"I have so much work to do!"

"Heroes sometimes take a day off, especially when they are sick."

"I know, but-"

"But nothing. You'll be fine."

"You sure?"

"I'm positive."

* * *

*** = An example of Francis Bonnefoy's wonderful hospitality.**

**ALSO: I support the theory that the nations in Hetalia are merely personifications that represent their country while also literally BEING their country... if that made any sense at all.** **A better way to explain my theory would be this: The Hetalia characters are humans that represent their country, live in their country, and if something bad/good/mediocre happens to the landmass/country ITSELF or a group of its citizens, the human form of that country will be affected. **

**There we go.**

**Thank you for reading!**

**Please review!**  
**~BunnieGal~**

**UPDATE: I changed the story just a little because I claimed that Alfred (America) is a larger country than Matthew (Canada) is, and that is not correct.**

***sigh***

**I need to learn how to read a map.**


	4. Chapter Four

Although it had only been three hours (fifteen minutes since Romano and Prussia had left, the latter having taken my temperature right before they departed), Germany insisted that I allow _him_ to take my temperature without further explanation. I figured that it was because he distrusted Prussia, but that didn't make any sense at all. How can you distrust someone with a thermometer? I finally drew the conclusion that Germany was just worried.

I appreciated his somewhat-fatherly instincts, but he wasn't allowing me to do anything but get up to go to the bathroom. Then I had to go back to bed. I guess I couldn't blame him; this fever was highly contagious, and the more I navigated the house, the more germs there would be. Still, couldn't he allow me to do something other than rest all day? Germany spoke, pulling me out of my thoughts.

"Here comes the train," he said as he held the temperature-taking-stick in front of me. I couldn't help but giggle at least a little; as serious as he was, Germany could always make me laugh. I lifted my tongue and allowed him to push the thing into my mouth. Once again, it only laid there for a few seconds (which were filled with several attempts to stifle a cough) before it made several high-pitched beeping noises. For some reason or other, they were louder than they had been the first time Germany had taken my temperature. I would find out that reason soon enough.

_'Quello che non va?' _I wondered, trying to decide whether I should ask Germany or simply wait for him to explain. Thankfully, the explanation came on its own, although I'm not sure that the actual explanation was something to be thankful for.

"Perhaps we should get you out from under those covers."

"Why?"

"Forty point one hundred sixty-seven."

I will admit, my inference skills aren't exactly what I would refer to as 'fantastic', but I knew that he had just read my temperature. It hadn't increased by much if you think about it, but if my temperature _kept _climbing at this rate, I would be dead by tomorrow. Needless to say, my body reacted horribly to fevers. I suddenly began to appreciate Germany's overly-protective instincts; we both knew that this could get even _worse _if we didn't do something quickly.

I held my head in my hands after I sat up. The horrible thing about lying in bed all day is this: When you finally _do _get up, all of the blood rushes from your head very quickly, and that tends to be very painful... or at least the 'very' part applies to me.

"I'll call the doctor."

Ludwig stepped out of the room, and I was left with only my thoughts to accompany me. It felt as if they were having a competition to see which one would scare me the most.

This was the most frequently-occuring thought: _'What if this is something more?'_

Tears of fear began to well up in my eyes. It seemed strange that Matthew and Alfred had gotten sick just a few days before I did with the exact same thing. What was even stranger was that I hadn't heard about anyone else getting sick; it was only us three. Maybe it was just a strange coincidence.

Maybe it was something worse.

My mind came up with several crazy explanations as to why this was happening, but none of them made sense. I knew for a fact that I was completely overreacting and needed to calm down. However, that didn't mean that I would, and I didn't for a long time.

When I finally _did, _I was fast asleep.

It had been a long morning.

* * *

**Long wait, short chapter... and I disappointed myself with this one.**

**But, on the bright side, chapter five is coming soon... or _somewhat_ soon, anyway.**

**-BunnieGal-**


	5. Chapter Five

Romano walked inside my house with a scowl on his face. He had reason to, I remembered, as I had been the one to draw his attention away from his brother. _I _was the one who was entitled to be this angry, though. Lovino had promised me that he would only be going to the grocery store for a few minutes, and - seeing that I had no way to object, as I was busy with paperwork at the time - he had hurried off to Feliciano's. The boy was sick, yes, but that did not mean that Romano had the right to leave when _he _was sick as well. I sighed and turned my attention back to said nation.

"Oi, Spain," he grumbled. "Okay, what is it?"

I tapped my foot on the ground and gave him one of my I-think-you-know-what-it-is glares, something that always worked on Romano when he was younger, and if it didn't work now, then I didn't know what would. As usual, I was correct; it worked.

"Your point has been proven."

I smiled before asking, "How many times has it been?"

"Don't push it, Antonio."

"Seriously, though... why did you leave without telling me?"

Romano looked at the tan carpeting of the floor, the speed of his breathing slightly increasing.

"Romano?"

He looked up at me with big, brown eyes that were on the verge of tears - or at least until he blinked them back.

"I-I'm just... concerned for Feliciano; he hasn't been himself lately. I wish... I wish he would come to me instead of that _idiot, _Ludwig. Forget the fact that the German lives next door to him. He could at least call or something."

"Well, Romano, he hasn't been feeling-"

"Yeah, yeah, I know that he's sick. But something about him has just been... different lately. More reserved. I don't know how to explain it."

Although I had only encountered Feliciano twice in the past few weeks, I understood exactly what my former-charge meant. The Italian had been very _responsible _lately-something that was uncommon for him to be. Not that I'm trying to be mean or anything, because he was doing just fine on his own. That is, until he caught whatever sickness that this was.

This sudden change had shown Feliciano's progress, and while I should not be commenting on the matter, I will admit that I was taken aback by his sudden display of courage. How many times had he done such a thing for such an extended amount of time? Perhaps it had a different effect on Romano than what I would've thought; as far as I knew, the previously-questioned total came to none, and Romano had never responded to change very well.

Another likely reason that Lovino was upset was this: He had despised Germany since he had met the guy, and it didn't help that Feliciano was becoming more like said nation. Ludwig probably had nothing to do with this, though, because he had just gotten back from a two-week-long trip to France. Feliciano normally wouldn't have been able to go a week without asking someone with help for something, and thus, he had shown his responsibility (which was exactly why this situation was happening in the first place.)

"I understand," I said, trying to find a way to change the subject. I didn't want to see my Roma so sad, and he would only be more troubled if we continued on with this conversation. Walking toward his room, (which was actually the same room that he had stayed in as a child) I motioned for him to follow me.

Upon arriving, I saw a sudden change in his facial expressions; his sadness changed to reminiscence within a matter of seconds. I didn't know that he would recognize his room because he hadn't been to my house in... _how long had it been?_

"I'll go get the thermometer," I stated as I walked out of the room.

When I returned, I found Romano lying down on the bed with the covers pulled over him. His eyes were slowly but surely closing. I hated to pull him out of his peaceful state of oblivion before he even entered it, but this had to be done, and so I followed through with my "plan," if you could call it that.

Romano snatched the thermometer out of my hand and stuck it in his mouth. I smiled and took it back out.

"It's not even turned on yet," I explained.

After the devise was powered up, I handed it back to Lovino, who nodded his thanks and stuck the thermometer under his tongue. Was this what Francis was talking about when he mentioned an awkward silence? I mean, I would think that Romano would at least try to say _something. _Maybe Alfred and Lovino had _one _thing in common. (I had never pondered at this or tried to find ways that they were similar, though; the thought had never crossed my mind.)

I read the temperature that was being displayed on the screen, and (barely) smiled at yet another similarity of the Italy brothers: apparently they both ran high fevers... with the same temperature.

Huh.


	6. Chapter Six

**Before you read this, I must inform you of something: This chapter is written from Germany's point of view, and...**

**...I do not own _Hetalia._**

* * *

I walked back into the room to find that Feliciano was asleep. I had originally planned to inform him that a doctor's appointment was set for Monday, but seeing that he was unconscious at the moment, I decided that I should not leave until he awakened. Sighing, I walked into the kitchen to make brunch, only to be interrupted by the loud ringing of my cell phone. I sighed again – quite irritated at this point, if I may add – and went to answer it.

Thanking no one in particular that my cell phone had Caller I.D., I read the name on the screen. It was none other than my brother, and I already knew what that meant: he was probably either displeased with my broken promise or worrying about why I wasn't home, both of which being potentially destructive to the existing reconciliation between us. I ignored the idea that somehow formed itself in my mind – which was to ignore the phone call and act like I never heard it – and clicked the 'talk' button.

"West," Gilbert chided in a not-so-easygoing voice.

"East," I said, feebly attempting to lighten the mood and let myself out of the doghouse at the same time.

"Germany," he replied in a calmer voice than before.

"Prussia."

"Ludwig."

"Gilbert."

"Doitsu," my elder brother said in a high-pitched voice that sounded exactly like Feliciano's. I nearly smiled before remembering that I needed to tell Gilbert something.

"Oh, yeah, about Feliciano… he's asleep, which is why I didn't return as soon as I said I would."

"Oresama's guessing skills are so awesome, he didn't need you to tell him that, but he's glad you finally did because he was beginning to think that you died."

"Why would you think that I had died?"

"You didn't come home! How was I supposed to know that you were still over there?"

"I just told you that he was asleep."

"True that… but who needs intellect when you have awesomeness?"

"That would be most people."

"Most people aren't as awesome as I am!"

"Okay, you win."

"Surrender is _not _an option!"

During those last few sentences, Feliciano had managed to un-tuck himself from the abundance of blankets and sheets that occupied his bed, walk down the hallway and into the kitchen where I was standing, and listen to this pointless conversation without shrieking in terror and running into the other room. I have to admit, I would've probably done so if I had been him. Thankfully he knew Prussia and me well enough to endure this conversation, even though he had only heard a little fragment of it.

Now he was standing in the kitchen, next to the refrigerator, playing around with the magnets that were on it. I noticed that there was a picture of him and Romano in front of the Sagrada Familia, which reminded me of the time when Prussia dragged me along to Spain (physical country, not personification) to join Francis and Antonio in some sight-seeing trip that they were doing; but they had somehow "come across" a karaoke bar and begged me to come in. Reluctantly, I succumbed to their begging and managed to sing _Einsamkeit _without crying. (When I sing that song, I usually cry some very manly tears.)

"Are you still there?" Prussia inquired. I snapped out of my daze before realizing that I was still staring at Italy, who was also expecting the answer to a question.

"_Serves me right for spacing out into reminiscence," _I thought.

"Hold on a second," I answered before putting my hand over the receiver. "Can you repeat that?" I asked a certain Italian.

"I asked if Romano has called since I fell asleep."

"No, he hasn't called _yet_."

"Oh, okay."

Italy turned around and walked back to his room, leaving behind an arrangement of magnets that was now situated into the word _pasta_.

"_How did he do that in such a short amount of time?" _I wondered.

"I'm back. What were we talking about again?"

"I asked you if Romano is over there."

"Nein; he left with you, remember?"

"Uh-oh," Prussia said, sounding more like a child than a 22-year-old.

"Was ist los?"

"Romano has officially gone missing."

"You can't be serious."

"Oh, but I am."

"Yeah, I'm sure."

"West, I mean it."

"I still don't believe you."

"Hasn't Spain called your- err, _Feliciano's _house?"

"Not yet."

I don't know whether it was just a coincidence or an event that Prussia had somehow orchestrated; but regardless of what scenario was actually the case, the home phone rang and displayed a familiar name on the Caller I.D.

"And that's him."

"Okay, I'll let you go."

"Bye."

"Bye."

I sat down my cell phone and raised the other phone up to my ears, only to lower it again; when Spain is upset, he is _upset, _and he doesn't exactly use an 'inside voice' when he is distraught.

"Feliciano, is your brother there? Have you seen him?"

"This isn't Feliciano…"

"Oh, Ludwig! Well… have _you _seen Romano?"

"Not since he left, but that was about an hour ago."

"Oh," Spain said as it registered in his mind. "Gracias."

Our conversation ended as he pushed the 'end call' button on his phone. And of course someone had to be at the door. Today seemed to be a bad day for Feliciano _and _me.

Cursing my unfortunate state of Weltschmerz that was caused by all of the events that had taken place today, I opened the door to find none other than Lovino Vargas, who was bent over with his hands on his knees, dripping in sweat, coughing, and gasping for air. It wouldn't have taken a rocket scientist to figure out that he had just run all the way here. _Why _he had sprinted to come here was another question, and it was one that I did not possess the answer to.

As if he had read my mind, Romano filled his lungs with another breath of air before explaining, "Spain… left to go… to th-the store… and I didn't want to leave… Feliciano alone… because I thought you… might be gone… and now I have just… realized that I ran here for no reason."

"What time- oh, you can come in if you'd like," I interrupted myself, suddenly remembering that it was only 10 degrees* outside. "What time did you leave your home?"

"About…" Romano paused as he looked at his watch. "Five minutes ago. The idiota couldn't have been back by then, so I figured-"

"ROMANO," a certain Spaniard called, "ROMANOOOOOO!"

"Quick, hide me!"

Without giving further warning (not that I had been expecting one), the 'threatened' nation ducked behind me, grabbing my military uniform in a vain attempt to hide himself. Needless to say, that plan didn't work very well and only fueled the not-yet-present moment of confusion.

"Oh, Roma, I was getting so worried!"

"Sta 'zitto!"

"Qué pasa, Lovino?"

"So che non sono così stupidi."

I watched in silence, trying my hardest not to interfere with their conversation; but that wasn't as easy as it probably should've been; while it wasn't a rare occurrence for Lovino to be angry with Spain, it _was _quite rare for him to switch to Italian, especially when Antonio was around. Also needless to say, Spain usually preferred Romano to speak Spanish if not English, even though he was no longer Romano's boss and – as far as I knew – wasn't teaching him Spanish any longer.

Spain looked at Romano, stunned, probably still wondering why on earth Romano was upset. I would've thought that Spain would be able to read Romano like a book by now; but then again, I usually feel the same way about Italy and I. It is quite ironic, really, how Spain's relationship with Romano is kind of similar to Feliciano's relationship with me, except the roles are reversed…

Romano rescued Spain from his moment of confusion by adding in English, "I told you that I wanted to take care of my fratellino, but did you let me? NO!"

Spain's eyes showed a hint of realization mixed with remorse, and then they changed to a thoughtful expression; now he was probably trying to figure out how to reply to that. Apparently, he wasn't thinking hard enough; silence hung in the air for what seemed like a decade before he apologized.

"You're right, Roma. I'm sorry."

Romano stood next to me and stared, quite obviously shocked that Spain had asked for forgiveness, although it wouldn't have shocked me at all. Spain was usually a forgive-and-forget kind of person, but regardless of that, his apologies were still sincere.

"It's… it's okay," a stunned Lovino replied.

"Let's go home," Antonio suggested.

"Sure, just give me one moment. I need to give Feliciano something."

Romano strolled down the hallway, producing a small piece of paper from the pocket of his jeans and turning the corner into Feliciano's room.

"Fratello!" Feliciano exclaimed. "Fratello, what's this?"

Given that Romano and I were separated by a hallway, I was unable to hear his whispered reply, but it seemed to satisfy Feliciano.

"Grazie! Ti amo!"

"Yeah, yeah, okay. Just be sure not to lose it."

"I will. Wait, Romano, where are you going?"

"Home; it seems that I have gotten sick as well."

"Oh… I hope you start feeling better!"

"Thank you; same to you."

Romano walked out of Feliciano's room and down the hallway, motioning for Antonio to follow.

"I'll be in the car in a moment."

"Don't take a long time."

"I won't."

With that, Romano walked out the door and gently shut it, wearing a somewhat-suspicious expression on his face when he turned around to grab the handle. I couldn't really blame him; Antonio is very social, and it is sometimes hard to get him to end the conversation. Thankfully, I wasn't required to do that.

"What do you think this virus thing is?" Spain asked.

"I have no idea, and honestly, I'm very worried about it. What if Prussia and I are next?"

"I doubt that you and Prussia would get sick by this. Whatever this illness is, it only shows symptoms of the common cold."

"I guess that is true, but what about Alfred? I never would have thought that he would get sick like this. Prussia told me that Francis said Alfred was nearly unable to eat breakfast."

"Well, that completely contradicts what I said a minute ago."

"What could you two possibly be talking about?" Romano asked as he burst into the house. "You're taking forever!"

"We were talking about your cold," Spain quickly explained. (Well, he wasn't _completely _lying.)

"Um… okay. Why?"

"I thought that it was ironic that you and Feliciano had a cold while you're brothers, and the same goes for Alfred and Mathieu."

"Oh, yeah… that is pretty ironic," Romano agreed.

"Ja… ironic."

"Well, we'd best be going," said Antonio after a moment of silence. "Bye, Ludwig."

"Bye, Antonio."

Spain opened the door and held it open while a noticeably-tired Lovino walked outside before following him.

My hunger suddenly diminishing, I walked into the living room and blankly stared at the television before Feliciano walked into the living room, chattering on his cell phone in worried (and surprisingly fluent) German.

"Oh, okay. Here he is," prompted Italy as he held the phone out to me, still speaking in German. "It's Prussia," he whispered.

"Hello?"

"Deutschland, du musst sofort nach Hause kommen. "

* * *

* = 50 degrees Fahrenheit

**TRANSLATIONS...  
**Doitsu = Germany (Japanese)  
Nein = No (German)  
Was ist los? = What's wrong? (German)  
Gracias. = Thank you. (Spanish)  
Idiota = Idiot (Italian)  
Qué pasa? = What's wrong? (Spanish)  
So che non sono così stupidi. = I know you are not that stupid. (Italian)  
fratellino = little brother (Italian)  
fratello = brother (Italian)  
Grazie! = Thank you! (Italian)  
Ti amo! = I love you! (Italian)  
Ja. = Yes. (German)  
Deutschland, du musst sofort nach Hause kommen. = Germany, you must come home immediately.


	7. Chapter Seven - Journals (Part One)

Now that the story is on a cliffhanger, it is clarification time! Basically, this is the drawn-out version of the back story I wrote in the AN on Chapter Three. The first part of this chapter is written by Alfred, but the second part is written by Mathieu.

Please don't kill me for publishing this with an AN after publishing it once.

_I do not own Hetalia._

* * *

"Ugh, this headache is killing me!" I exclaimed as I walked downstairs to make the wonderful bliss that was coffee. This morning had started out like all of my other mornings: the alarm clock went off, I attempted to hit the "snooze" button a thousand times before I actually succeeded, and I fell back asleep, sleeping through the next alarm. I had finally woken up around ten with a horrible headache, which I was currently complaining about.

"Maybe coffee will help," I assured myself as I poured water into the coffee-preparing mechanism. "I'm just deprived of caffeine."

However, coffee _didn't _help. By this time, I was pretty worried; but I wasn't willing to give up hope just yet. After all, a world meeting was scheduled for today, giving me four hours to do anything I wanted before forcing myself to get into my car and drive the anticipation-filled forty-five minutes to the White House. Why Iggy had scheduled the meeting so late _and_ at my place, I had no idea; but he said that it was pretty urgent.

"Hmmm... maybe a shower will clear my sinuses," I suggested myself.

Upon stepping into the bathtub, I turned the water on the hottest setting that it could go and waited for it to work the sinus-clearing wonders my body demanded. As I grabbed the bar of soap, it slipped out of my hands and landed on the floor.

_Oh boy,_ I thought. _I know how this is going to turn out._

I reached down and picked up the bar of soap, only to have the best of luck again. (Please note my sarcasm.) By now, I was pretty ticked off. Then I slipped on the trail of soap the bar had left behind and feel flat on my face, which caused my mood and headache to worsen. Today was not going to be a very good day.

(TIME SKIP...)

After several minutes of struggling, I finally managed to stand up and wash the remaining soap off of myself and step out of the shower and onto a towel without falling, all the while bearing a very persistent headache. What's worse was that I was now sporting a cool, new bruise along the left side of my arm and a nearly-broken nose. I would've been able to hide the bruise had the current season been winter; but because the season was spring and the temperature was warming up, I didn't feel like wearing a long-sleeved shirt. I wondered what Iggybrows would say when he saw my wonderful appearance.

* * *

"Sacrebleu," I muttered as I stepped out of bed and onto the carpeted floor of my bedroom. My morning had been like most others; upon awakening, I felt the abnormal warmth of my covers, which meant that – more than likely – I had a fever. My headache could've rivaled that of Papa's when I hit him in the head with a soccer ball, the impact so hard that it sent him to the wonderfully-carpeted field of grass and gave him a bloody nose and a migraine. I shuttered at the memory, guilt flooding my soul. I'm usually not one to forgive myself, even though that incident happened when I was only eight years old.

"What's wrong?" my little polar bear, Kumajiro, asked.

"I'm sick again."

"Who are you?"

"I'm the guy who feeds you and takes care of you."

"I remember now. Your name is Canada, right?"

"Oui."

"Maybe some maple syrup and pancakes will help," Kuma suggested, springing from his little bed and gesturing to the alarm clock, which read 10:30. "It's late. You might just be hungry."

"Good idea," I commended.

(TIME SKIP…)

Pancakes and maple syrup were excellent for days such as these, which occurred about three times throughout the month. Today, though, pancakes didn't help at all. Given that I was supposed to go to the world meeting today, it was not a good day to be sick.

_Oh well, _I thought. _I guess I can miss it just this once. No one really notices me there, anyway._

Just as I began to sulk in the pity-partying that comes with feeling ill, the phone rang, sending a horrible wave of pain through the very center of my skull.

"Ugh," I groaned. "Who could that be?"

I quickly stopped complaining as I read the name on the Caller I.D. It was my father! Maybe he would be able to make me feel better! But… today was the world meeting. My heart sank as I realized that I would have to tough it out alone.

"Hello?" I dejectedly asked.

"Mathieu, what's wrong?"

Unwilling to burden him with my affliction, I lied, saying, "Nothing. I'm feeling great!" before a cough or two (or five) escaped my lips.

"Mathieu, you're ill."

"Well, yeah, but… how did you know?"

"I raised you. I think I can sense when you aren't feeling well."

"That's… nice?"

"I wouldn't call it nice, but okay. Quoi est la problème?"

"I have a fever and a cold."

"Again?"

"Oui," I remorsefully muttered.

"Don't feel guilty."

"How could you tell how I was feeling? Seriously, dad, you're like some sort of psychic!"

"I know. Do you want me to come over and help take care of you? I know when you're ill you aren't exactly the most chipper person on the planet."

"Merci beaucoup, papa."

"No offense intended."

"Ouais, correct…"

"What I meant was, you might want someone to, you know, help out."

"Why didn't you just say _that?"_

"You know that I have problems with self-control!"

"Do I ever," I teased.

"You never answered my question," my father reminded me.

"Well, I don't want you to miss the meeting..."

"I'll figure something out; don't worry about it."

"In that case, okay. But are you sure that you want to do this?"

"Why wouldn't I be, Mathieu?"

"Je ne sais pas."

"Exactement."

"So you will be arriving when?"

"I'm in front of your house right now."

I walked out of the kitchen and into the living room to find that my father was, in fact, parked in the driveway. How he had gotten there so fast, I had no idea.

"How did you get here so quickly?"

"I flew to Toronto yesterday."

"Pourquoi?"

"For one, the flight to Washington, D.C. won't be as long anymore because I'll just come here a few days before; and I was also thinking of purchasing a summer house here anyway."

"Oh… okay then. I'll be outside in a minute."

"Okay."

_Click._

I washed my plate and made sure that my clothes (which I had slept in) looked presentable enough. Giving Kuma one last hug, I walked out the door and onto the driveway, where my dad's silver Peugeot 508 was parked.

"Merci," I said as he unlocked the door and I climbed in.

"Non problème."

The trip to his newly-purchased summer house was mostly silent other than a few mentions of said tranquillity and the occasional burst of laughter that I was unable to suppress.

"What's so funny?" my father would ask, even though he knew all too well what I was laughing about; it was normal for me to laugh during after awkward silences between my dad and I.

"No-nothing," I stammered, barely able to articulate the two syllables through the hilarity. "Oh, hey, we're here."

"Indeed we are," Papa said, giving me a look that told me I was stating the obvious.

"Sorry."

"Where did you get the urge to apologize? You certainly didn't get it from me or Eng- Ar- the Brit."

"Alfred?" I suggested.

"You definitely didn't get it from _Alfred._"

"Perhaps Jea-"

"Let's go inside," my father interrupted, opening the door and stepping out of the car.

_Oh sacrebleu,_ I thought. _Why do I have to be such an idiot?_

As I walked in the door that was left open for me, I gasped. The walls of my father's house were adorned with pictures and French flags.

"Surprised?" he asked, to which I could only nod. How had he decorated his new house so swiftly? I mean, sure, it wasn't that large; but regardless, that is a pretty astonishing feat. "I thought you might be."


	8. Chapter Seven - Journals (Part Two)

**AN (Authour's Note):** Hello, world, and all who inhabit it. Before you kill me for such a short chapter, no translations for last chapter, _and _no acknowledgement of the Jeanne/Joan d'Arc reference, let me explain – I was very busy that weekend, and although I probably should've waited so I could proofread and provide translations, I had my heart set on publishing the chapter that weekend; and I feared that if I didn't post it when I did, you guys would be kept waiting for another two weeks or so. Okay, now you may kill me. (I'm just kidding, please don't.)

Also, and I think this is the first time I've had to do this, I should warn you about some of the content in this chapter. Let's say that Alfred is... a bit snappy when he has a headache. Children, avert thine eyes. [Oh, and by the way, I am totally not making a big deal out of one swear word. *sarcasm*]

As for the Points of View on this chapter, there really isn't much to say. They are provided at the beginning of each section of the chapter. So without further adieu, I present Part II of the _Journals _series, a sub-series in _I Am Not Alone._

**Disclaimer: _I do not own_ Hetalia.**

* * *

**America's POV**

I sighed as I plopped down on my bed, surrendering to the fact that I might as well give up; I had futilely attempted to remedy my illness for two hours straight, all to no avail. Now was the time to call someone and tell them. I knew that someone could not be England though; he would completely freak out if he knew that I was sick. He wouldn't be angry with me, of course; but if there was anything I could do to keep him from feeling any negative emotions, I would do it; and I know he would do the same. So I decided to call France instead and see if he would be able to take notes for me. I knew I should not miss the meeting, but I also knew it wouldn't be worth getting everyone else sick. In addition to that, I would at least need some notes because, as I said before, England said that it was something very important. Did he know something that I didn't? Was the illness what this meeting was about? But why would he keep that from me? I sighed again and told myself that this was nothing more than a head cold, although I didn't believe myself at all. Realizing that I still held the phone, I quickly dialed France's number and waited for him to answer.

"Bonjour, Amérique. Comment allez-vous?"

"I am good. Thanks, dude," I lied, trying to make my voice as cheerful as possible. "Do you think you could take some notes for me at the meeting?"

"Oui," he replied. "Mais pourquoi? You will be there, won't you?"

"Um, yeah, about that…" I paused for a moment, trying to think of what to say next. Needless to say, I'm not very good at lying. "I just have some errands to run."

"What errands can be more important than a world meeting?"

Now I really didn't know what to say. _What errands _could _be more important than a world meeting? _I wondered. _I could say that I have a doctor's appointment, but then he'll know that I'm sick!_

"Salut? Is anyone there?"

"Uh, yeah, I'm here."

"You still didn't answer my question," he reminded me.

"I... um… have to attend a meeting with Mr. Obama."

"Amérique, you don't have to lie to me."

"But I'm not lying!"

"Oui, tu es."

"Okay, so maybe I am; but how would you know?"

"I know that you will never miss a meeting unless you absolutely need to," he casually responded.

"You know me well," I complemented.

"If I may ask, what exactly is going on?"

"Errr…" I didn't really want to tell him, but at the same time, I couldn't lie to him. "I've just… kind of caught a head cold."

"A head cold?" France echoed.

"Maybe it's a bit more than a head cold…"

"How much worse?"

"What?" I asked.

"How much worse is it?"

"Well, let's see," I began, pretending to ignore the sigh that came from the other end of the line. "First off, I woke up with a migraine. I tried to take a shower and ended up slipping and hitting my head while also managing to get a bruise on my arm. I think it's safe to say that I am having a pretty crappy morning."

"Morning?" a familiar voice asked with a hint of amusement in his voice. "He is referring 11:59 A.M. as morning?"

"Is… is that _Mattie?_"

"Oui," Francis replied.

"What the hell is he doing at _your _house?" I asked before realizing that I sounded very rude. "Um… what I meant was, 'Why is he at your summer home if he should be getting ready for the meeting?' "

"Why are you talking on the phone when _you_ could be getting ready for the meeting?"

"Good point."

"Mattie has gotten sick as well, and I offered to take care of him."

"Mathieu is sick, too?" I inquired, even though I had just gotten the answer two seconds ago.

"Oui."

"Ironique, eh?" Mathieu asked.

"Yes, that is," I agreed.

"Oh, and Al – Papa, don't just stand there, hand me the phone! – Alfred, I was kind of wondering if maybe… I mean, if you want to… maybe you could…"

"Come over?" I assisted.

"Oui," my brother timidly replied. "But you don't have to if you don't want to. I mean, it's your decision. I don't want you to feel pressured. The last thing I want to do is make you feel uncomfortable. I'm sorry if I am by rambling on like this."

A small smile tugged at the corners of my mouth. "Don't worry," I reassured. "You're fine."

"Is that a yes?" Francis asked.

"Well, you're already helping Mathieu out…"

"And your point is…?"

"Are you really sure about this?"

"When was the first time I lied to you?"

"Let's see… you told me that England's cooking was worth eating."

"Do you remember why I said that?"

"You had a bet with England and you lost."

"So forgiveness is a virtue."

"I'm pretty sure that's patience."

"Are you denying the importance of forgiveness?"

"Get to the point," my brother muttered. "D-désolé, papa."

"Is that a yes?" Francis asked again.

"No…"

"Quoi? Pourquoi pas?"

"Let me finish!"

"You may continue."

"It's a maybe."

"Are you _kidding _me?" Mathieu rhetorically asked. "Alfred, what have you got to lose?"

"My dignity."

"Gee, thanks."

"You're welcome," I replied with equal valor.

"Anyway…" Francis interjected. "Are you sure?"

"I said 'maybe,' not, 'no!'"

"Make up your mind already!" father and son yelled in unison.

"Because you two beg for my presence so," I began in the worst impersonation of Arthur you have ever heard. "I have decided that I will amuse you by coming over."

"Merci la Dieu!" Mathieu exclaimed.

* * *

**England's POV  
**

_Ring… riiiiing… riiiiiiing…_

"Now, who could that be?" I asked myself as I clicked my seat belt. "Everybody knows that we have a world—" I broke off as I read the name that was displayed on my mobile. "Hello, Francis?" I flatly asked/greeted.

"Bonjour, mon ami! Comment allez-vous?"

"What?" I asked, completely discombobulated as to what on earth he was saying.

Francis sighed before repeating in English, "Hello, my friend. How are you?"

"Um… I am good. How about yourself?"

"I am doing… not-so-well, I guess. Would you care to take notes for me at the meeting?"

"Honestly, Francis, you should've given me a warning sooner. I was just about to leave!"

"Yes, but this is an emergency!"

"What is it?" I inquired, slightly exasperated at his tendency to be a bit of a drama-queen.

"Alfred and Mathieu have both fallen ill."

"Mathieu _and_ Alfred?" I wasn't sure whether to be surprised by the fact that they had both fallen ill at the same time or the fact that Alfred had not been able to make the meeting in the first place. He would never miss a meeting.

"Oui," Francis responded. "Honestly, I'm not so sure that this is just the common cold Mathieu gets all the time, either. He hasn't been himself lately, and he hasn't been for a few weeks now."

For the first time in a while, I knew and understood where Francis was coming from. I had tried to have a conversation with him over the phone sometime within the past week, but there were points within our conversation where he turned into a clone of Alfred and others where he was completely silent altogether.

"I'll tell you what, Francis. If I take notes for you, do you promise that you will do the same if I am ever not able to make it?"

"Bien sûr!"

"English, please," I requested, feeling a bit more than slightly ashamed that I had known Francis for this long and was still unable to understand his language.

"Of course!"

"Thank you," I said before looking at my watch and realizing that I had only a few minutes to spare. "Oh my god. Francis, I have to go."

"Okay."

"Goodbye."

I pressed the 'End Call' button on my mobile before exiting the car and running into my house to find a notepad and pen.

Something told me that I just might run out of ink.

* * *

**(Translations)**

**[all French]**

Bonjour, Amérique. Comment allez-vous? = Hello, America. How are you?  
Oui, mais pourquoi? = Yes, but why?  
Salut? = Hello?  
Amérique = America  
Oui, tu es. = Yes, you are.  
Ironique. = Ironic.  
Quoi? Pourquoi pas? = What? Why not?  
Merci la Dieu! = Thank the Lord!


	9. Chapter Seven - Journals (Finale)

**Hello, everyone! As you can see, I have finally returned to our wonderful planet after dropping off of it for a few weeks. Where to begin...?**

**A big shout-out to TheGrammarHawk, who motivated me to finish this chapter: Thank you!**

_**I do not own **Hetalia** or** MapQuest._

* * *

~ At the World Meeting... ~

"Hello, everyone," Arthur Kirkland, the one who summoned the meeting, said as he rose from his seat. "This meeting is about some of the strange occurrences that have been happening lately, starting with the rising of debt among the nations..."

(France's POV)

The phone rang loudly as I took Alfred's temperature for what seemed to be the twentieth time today; he was constantly begging me to check and see if his fever had gone down any, and despite my attempts to get him to give it a rest, he begged until I finally couldn't take it anymore. I was ready to just sit the thermometer next to his bed and use a different one for Mathieu, since I would have to clean this thermometer several times if I still allowed them to share one.

"It seems that the meeting has finished," I commented before grabbing the phone from its base and clicking the 'talk' and 'speaker' button. "Hello?"

"Hello, France," England deadpanned. "Could you give me directions to your house?"

"I don't know. Can I?"

"Francis, stop correcting my grammar and give me directions!" Arthur snapped.

"Déso–" I paused, remembering that England didn't understand my language. Why he had never even bothered to learn it, I did not know. "Sorry! Why are you so snappy today?"

"I'm not snapping at you!"

"Sounds like it to me."

"Francis, just shut up and give me directions!"

"What happened?"

"What do you mean, 'What happened?'?"

"Arthur, in case you haven't noticed, you are sounding even more grumpy than usual."

"Fine, but why would _you_ want to know?"

"Because je t'aime, Angleterre!" I exclaimed, fully aware that he would know what that meant; he had heard it nearly a thousand times before.

"Oh, stop!" Arthur replied light-heartedly.

"I'm being serious, though, answer my question. Everyone keeps changing the subject today."

"Typical Alfred."

"Hey!" a certain American exclaimed.

"Why were_ you _changing the subject?" Apparently, England was back in I-hate-everyone mode.

"What?"

"For the twentieth time, give me the directions so I can come over to your house and hand you the papers! I don't know if you've realized it yet, Francis, but I'm offering to do you a favour! I think you can afford to be kind to me once in a while."

"Okay," I replied, slightly taken aback by his speech. "But first, you have to tell me what is wrong."

"Never mind, I'll Google the directions."

"How can you Google it if you don't even know where I am currently residing?"

"I hate to say this, but I guess that _would _be impossible."

"Exactly. Now tell me."

"It's just that... well, you know how world meetings are. Nothing ever gets done. There's always so much fighting, and for the first time ever, I realized how little I actually help Germany get things in order; you and I are always fighting with each other. It didn't help my mood when I tried to quiet everyone down and they pointed that out to me, either." Arthur coughed and muttered something that sounded vaguely like, 'Switzerland,' before coughing again. "And it doesn't help that everyone was interested in their own problems too much to actually care about what the topic of the meeting was."

"What was the topic?"

"The strange increase of illnesses among the nations."

"Oh, okay," I said, switching my gaze over to an astonished Alfred and a worried Mathieu.

"So where exactly _do _you live?"

I told him the house number and street name while he typed it in on MapQuest.

"Okay, thank you," he said before hanging up, oblivious to the fact that his phrase was echoing in my mind.

_Illnesses among the nations? _I pondered. _It makes sense that Alfred would be sick, but Mathieu isn't in debt by _that _much, is he? As far as I know, I'm worse off than he is._

Alfred must have been thinking exactly the same thing because he said, "Well... at least we're not the only ones."

"Ouais," Mathieu agreed before weakly laughing.

If those two weren't the only ones, who _else _had fallen ill? Who was next? Was there any way to combat this problem?

I would just have to wait until we received the notes.


	10. Chapter Eight

Hey there! Well, I guess there isn't much to say. This is written from Prussia's point of view, and short chapter is short.  
*puppy dog eyes* Pardonnez-moi, s'il vous plait!  
I bet you can guess who's been taking French lessons~! (Or has just become really good at Google Translate.)  
Chapter eight already... wow...

_I do not own Hetalia, although I would love to._

* * *

I laid down on my bed, petting Gilbird and trying to ignore the involuntary trembling that had seized me only a few minutes earlier as well as the horrible nausea that had sent me running to the bathroom while bearing the fear that I wouldn't be able to make it in time. After about a minute of gagging and lurching forward, I decided that I might as well give up. That was when the trembling had started.

"Ugh," I muttered. "I haven't felt this sick since—"

"Bruder? Wo bist du? Are you okay?" my younger brother yelled as he ran down the hallway and into my bedroom. "There you are! I'm sorry for being so late! Are you alright? What happened?" By now, he was kneeling down at my bedside and frantically checking my pulse, not bothering to wait for me to respond to any of his questions before sprinting out of the room and returning with a thermometer. "You're shaking! What happened?"

"I have absolutely no idea," I earnestly replied.

"No idea?" he asked, his face displaying worry for the first time in a long while. "While I am not a big fan of similies, you are literally quaking like a leaf in the wind. Are you sure that nothing happened?"

"I felt like I was going to throw my guts up at any given moment when I called," I offered.

"Well, that's a start," West semi-optimistically remarked. "Put this under your tongue." He held the thermometer out to me, and it wasn't until I reached my hand out to take it that I realized how much I was trembling. My brother was correct; arguing with him would be completely pointless, especially because now I officially had absolutely zero motive to do so. I grabbed the thermometer out of my brother's hand and stuck it under my tongue, an action that I hadn't been obligated to perform since 1949*.

West and I sat there in an, in France's words, "awkward" silence, the former trying as hard as he could not to panic any further when he read the number aloud.

_How can my temperature be 39.5** degrees?_ I wondered. _Is this some kind of super-virus that sets on ambushing its victim or something? Seriously, I should've felt crappy earlier this morning. And was it really necessary to make _me _ill? I swear to Gott, if this disease or whatever doesn't stop attacking nations and ex-nations, who will be left to personify? Being immortal is just too awesome to give up!_

Germany read my thoughts and commented in an even tone, "This is unfortunate."

"You bet."

"That's strange, though, how you felt nauseated. I don't think that any of the other nations had that trouble."

"What about America?"

"Well, you're right, he did."

"West…" I asked, more like pleaded, before continuing. "Do you think that… maybe this… personification stuff is just too much for us to handle?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, we're more immune to illnesses than regular humans. Maybe all of this is just catching up with us. I mean, think about it. Most, if not all, of us have lived for hundreds of years. Sure, we've gotten sick occasionally, but that was normally because of the government or wars and things like that. Maybe… maybe we're not meant to live on like this?" I took a deep breath after my speech, surprised that I was able to even deliver the message in my state.

"What are you thinking, Prussia?" Germany asked me, although _chided _would've been a better word. "We've been alive since our people have. What makes you think that we'll die now?"

"Well… I mean… no one else has been able to live the way we do."

"Because everyone else is a _human, animal, _or a _plant._ _Mortal._Once they're dead, they're gone, unless you count the afterlife, and in that case—"

"That's what I mean, West."

"What?"

"Once they're dead, they're _gone. _Maybe that's what is intended. Maybe the human life cycle is about to repeat itself for us."

"I see your point, but do you remember the other nations that died? It had something to do with a war or an economy that could not recover. No borders are being changed, and the economy isn't doing _too_ poorly."

"Did you even pay attention at the world meeting?" Fury was beginning to replace my fear.

"Yes, debt is on the rise, but that doesn't mean that we'll die."

"Have you ever considered that this is just a prelude to what is to come?" I asked, my concern returning. "What if the countries who are sick are the ones that will fall?"

"What about you?"

"What?" I asked, suddenly realizing my mistake. I had already fallen.

"You're a country in the sense that you're a personification, but…" Germany trailed off, and I could tell by the look in his eyes that he wouldn't continue even if I made him. It seemed that both of us were still at least slightly disturbed by the fact that the awesome Prussia was not written on the maps of today.

"Ja, ja, I'm not on the map. I've heard it all before."

"How do you explain _this_ then?"

"Explain what?"

Germany facepalmed before answering with a blunt, "Your illness, Prussia. How could you have gotten sick because of the economy? My economy is doing… fairly well, I guess, so why would you be sick?"

"I don't know."

"How can you be on the verge of extinction if you're still alive after… you know?"

Well, that stumped me. "I… I don't know."

"Exactly."

"Don't argue by using logic!" I scolded, suddenly noticing that the shaking had dwindled down to a few twitches. "You know how I am when I'm sick!"

"I'm not _arguing, _Prussia," my brother responded in a tone that one would use when explaining something relatively simple to a kindergartener. "I'm _comforting._"

"You're not doing a very good job of it."

"You're not doing a very good job at cooperating."

"As far as I'm concerned, I have done a _very _good job at cooperating, especially for someone who is sick." It took all of my willpower to keep from hurling as I said that. My shaking had stopped, but that didn't mean that my stomach had stopped attempting to rebel against the Frosted Flakes that West would kill me if he found, which was apparently getting his attention because he suddenly grabbed the trash can and handed it to me.

"Thanks," I attempted to say before quickly lurching forward [and causing Gilbird to fly off my shoulder out of fear], the contents of my stomach telling me that they _really _didn't want to be there and telling me that I was _really _stupid for consuming such sugary foods on an empty stomach. (Although that still didn't explain the fever.) Of course, my stomach wasn't going to simply rebel and get it over with; it was set on teaching me a lesson. I find it ironic that when you want something, 99.9% of the time it doesn't happen; and then when you don't want something to happen, it happens. This was one of those times where the former occurred. "Are you kidding me?" I asked after my episode finished.

"What did you eat for breakfast?"

"What?"

"What did you eat for breakfast?" my brother repeated.

"An egg sandwich, West!" I lied. "An egg sandwich."

My brother raised his eyebrows at me, a sign that he didn't believe me, and shook his head, a sign that he _really _didn't believe me.

Nothing is more intimidating than having a younger brother who is smarter than you.

* * *

Yeah, sorry about the totally-not-appetite-inducing-ness of this. I was trying to get my point across, and I'm not sure which I succeeded more in: accomplishing my goal or getting a lot of people to think that I'm cruel by making Prussia sick as well. *sweatdrop*

Yay, notes~!  
* - 1949 was the year that Prussia was "dissolved" and became East Germany. I have a theory [read as: headcanon] that he probably wasn't feeling very well then; on top of that, there was the Berlin Wall, which was a pain for Prussia and Germany. But I digress.  
** - How about we all just move to Europe? [Just kidding, but that would be awesome.] 39.5 degrees Celsius = 103.1

Thanks for reading!


	11. Chapter Nine

**_Hello again!  
Some details about this chapter: I think this chapter probably contains the most "point-of-view changes" than any other chapter of this fanfic and/or my others. Yay!  
Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia._**

* * *

**Italy's P.O.V.**

_Now I just have to sneak out without Germany finding me,_ I thought before opening the front door and suddenly realizing that, more than likely, I wasn't going to succeed. _Oh well. I'm glad that Romano gave me some money for the medicine. I wonder how he got it past Spain...?_

I suddenly slammed the door shut and sprinted to my car while my conscience incessantly stated that I shouldn't be doing this. _No, _I argued. _I've already gotten dressed. I've prepared for this moment. I _must _continue with this plan. Otherwise, I will have failed myself._

I fumbled through my pockets, ignoring the slight headache that began to form and praying that I would be able to find my keys before Germany caught me. Suddenly grasping the cold metal that would possibly cool my warm forehead, I looked through the windshield once more to find that everything was as it had been ten seconds ago. _Buon. _Now all I had to do was place the key in the ignition, turn it, and somehow manage to drive to the store without anyone recognizing me. Well, it seemed simple enough.

_Allons-y!_

* * *

**France's P.O.V.**

"That's a freakin' _ton_ of notes!" America commented after I presented them. "How long was this meeting? Honestly, you would think that England would've... um... what's the word?"

"Condensed them?" Mathieu asked.

"Yeah!" America exclaimed. "How does he expect us to understand all this stuff? And what's with that random French note on the side? England obviously does _not _speak French, so why on earth are there French word— Oh my god, France, what did you do to these?"

"What?"

"There's this girly French writing, and I'm pretty sure it's yours."

I shifted my gaze back to the stack of papers that were still in my hands to find that there actually was some French writing on them; but it wasn't mine, and I didn't think that Canada would dot his _i_s with circles.

"What does it say?" America eagerly asked. "Who is it from?"

_Bonjour, France!  
__Je suis désolée; je n'ai pas parlé avec vous pour un longtemps._  
_Pardonne-moi, s'il vous plait!  
S'il vous plait dire Amérique et Canada je veux voir le deux quand ils sont bien.  
__Au revoir!  
- Seychelles._

I smiled at the note; indeed, it had been a long time since she had written. I tried to remember the last time she had written a letter to me when I was jolted out of my thoughts by a certain American.

"Hello? Francis Bonnefoy. Earth to France!"

"I'm conscious…" I muttered. "What was so important that you had to drag me away from my nostalgia?"

"Who is the note from and what does it say?"

"The note's from Seychelles and it says, 'Bonjour, Franc—"

"If the whole thing is in French, I want to hear the English translation."

"As you wish," I said as I finally sat down next to Alfred. "The note says, 'Hello, France. I'm sorry; I haven't spoken with you for a long time. Forgive me, please! Please tell America and Canada that I want to see them as soon as they're well. Goodbye! From, Seychelles.' "

The first thing America did was criticize Seychelles for addressing the letter to me rather than all of us. In addition to that, he supported his argument by slinging an arm around Canada, who was sitting on his other side, and obligating him to agree.

"Anyway," I interjected right before America was about to start the second part of his rant. "Amérique, you have to keep in mind that neither one of us has communicated with each other in… a _while._ And would you rather have me keep the note from you rather than read it?"

"But you already read it to us."

"That isn't my point!" I said, suddenly realizing that my arguments were becoming more and more like the chidings of an angry mother. Before Alfred could comment on it, Mathieu grabbed the papers out of my hands and started dealing them out like cards.

"What are you_ doing?_" Alfred asked, his tone signaling bewilderment as well as slight offense.

"Getting this house in order!" Mathieu proudly proclaimed as he continued to deal them out. "There," he said when he was done. "Now each of us can read over the notes and whatnot."

"Has it ever occurred to you that the notes might've continued from one page to another? As in, you just ruined a novel that was made up of meeting papers?"

"Um…" Mathieu looked down at the ground. "N…no, actually."

I picked up a two pieces of paper, hoping that if I checked quickly enough, I would be able to avoid a possible argument. Sure enough, the notes _were _continuous, which meant that we would have to sort them out again and break them up into sections. I wondered how Angleterre had managed to write all of these without getting a cramp in his hand or something similar. Perhaps he had had help. At least the pages were numbered.

Apparently Mathieu had done the same thing because a blush began to tint his cheeks. "S-sorry," he muttered in an attempt to possibly pry the light of mercy from Alfred's soul.

"Isskay," America replied. "Now, where was page twenty-six?"

* * *

**America's P.O.V.**

"So if thirty-four was there…" I began before trailing off. Who was I kidding? There was no way we were going to be able to finish this within the next year if we didn't come up with a different approach. Still, what choice was there? _Nice going, Mattie,_ I inwardly remarked. I was about to consider crawling into the corner and starting an infamous sulking session when my cell phone rang. I pulled it out of my pocket to find that Prussia, of all people, was calling.

"Hello?" I asked after I clicked the 'talk' button and brought the phone to my ear, leaving a frustrated father and son as I walked out of the room for some peace.

"Um… g-guten tag, Amerika." There was no way that this was Prussia; the voice was way too deep. While it didn't sound quite like Germany's – since when did Ludwig Bielschmidt stutter? – no one else besides Italy would be on Prussia's phone, and this voice was just a tad masculine for him.

"Who is this?"

"It's me, Ludwig," came the somewhat cold reply.

"Oh, hey, Germany."

"Germany?" France asked as he stepped walked past me, probably going to his room to get something. I mouthed the word 'yes' and waited for the speaker at the other end of the phone line to continue.

"I called to ask you about your illness."

"Okay," I replied. "Go ahead."

"When you first, uh… fell ill, what exactly happened? Were you shaking, or did it only seem like something minor until time passed?"

"I had this really bad headache that wouldn't go away, and then I kind of fell in the shower, which made matters worse. It wasn't until about a day later that I got the stomachache. But no, I never started trembling. Why?"

"Well… Prussia seems to have come down with something similar, although it seems like his trouble might be from something else. Did Matthias have just a stomachache?"

_His name is Mathieu!_ I thought before telling Germany to hold on a minute. So far, this was the lengthiest conversation I'd had with him since World War Two; quite frankly, it was also probably the friendliest conversation I'd ever had with him. But I digress.

"Hey, Mattie?" I asked as I stood in the doorway.

"Yes, Alfred?"

"Germany was wondering if you only had a stomachache or something more."

"Why would he want to know that?"

"Prussia's ill."

"QUOI?" Mathieu yelled before running over to me and grabbing the phone out of my hand. "Hey, Ludwig, it's Mathieu. Is Prussia okay? What happened?" There was a long silence before Mathieu's eyes widened. Apparently it was something bad, because I had never seen my brother as ready to cry as he was right then. "Oh mon dieu…" The phone slipped out of his hands and onto the carpet when he ran out of this room and locked himself in the bathroom. I could barely make it out, but he was quietly sobbing.

"Are you still there?" I asked as I picked up the phone.

"Ja. What just happened? I was talking to Mathieu and then I heard a loud noise."

"He dropped the phone."

"Oh."

"So what exactly is wrong with Prussia?"

"When I came home from Feliciano's, he was trembling horribly and telling me about a stomachache he had. He stopped trembling, but his stomachache persisted."

"_That's _what made Mattie cry?"

"I told Mathieu that Gilbert thought that he was going to die. I was about to add that he isn't when Mathieu dropped the phone."

"Oh, I guess that makes sense," I said. "Wait, why was Prussia worried about dying?"

"I guess he thought that he was going through the same thing all of you are, and he thinks that you're going to die. I know that you all aren't going to die, and I doubt that Prussia is going to die because... well…" There was a short pause. "He is the awesome Prussia!" Ludwig said, doing a fairly accurate job of mimicking his brother's voice.

"Are you sure that Prussia didn't have a headache?"

"Believe me, if he'd had one, I would've heard about it." I chuckled a bit before Ludwig added, "Oh, there's _my _phone. I have to go."

"Okay. Nice talking to you."

"Nice talking to you, too."

"Bye."

I hung up the phone and hurried to the bathroom to tell Mathieu that everything was alright when I found that Francis and Mathieu were in the living room on the couch, the latter sobbing into the former's shirt.

"I-It's just not _fair!_" my brother choked, oblivious to the fact that I had taken a seat next to him and begun to slowly stroke his head. I didn't know why – heck, I _still_ don't know why – but something kept me from revealing the truth just yet. "G-Gilbert doesn't deserve this!"

"Je sais," Francis replied in a soothing voice as he rubbed circles on Mathieu's back. "I know."

"H-he probably isn't _going _to die – he gets kind of depressed like that when something bad happens to him – but w-why does h-he have to torture h-himself like that?"

_Well, at least he knows that Gilbert isn't going to..._ I thought before stopping myself as realization kicked in. _Wait; did he just say "probably isn't going to die"?_ Something about the look on Francis's face told me that he shared my thoughts. I suddenly remembered what Germany said over the phone when I asked him why Prussia was worried about death: "I know that you all aren't going to die, and I _doubt that Prussia is going to die_…"

_By the way he said 'doubt', though…_ Now I was sure that Prussia would survive through this.

"No, Mathieu," Francis argued in the most reassuring way possible. I didn't even know that was possible. "He _isn't_ going to die."

"W-W-We d-don't know that! Putain tout! Why d-does this have to h-happen to him? Pourquoi lui?"

"Je ne sais pas."

"Mathieu," I said, deciding that now would be the best time to make my presence known. "Ludwig said that Gilbert prob—that Gilbert isn't going to die."

"I h-heard the 'probably' before that."

"_Nice going,"_ Francis mouthed, glaring daggers at me. I had never seen him this angry with anyone unless it happened to be England, and that was understandable; they were rivals after all. Note to self: Freudian slips are not accepted in the Bonnefoy household.

"Listen to me," Francis said as he pulled Mathieu away from himself and looked into his teary violet eyes. "Gilbert isn't going to die. Believe me, I know him. He wouldn't allow something such as this to kill him."

"Yeah, it would have to be something like—" I began before receiving even more daggers.

"_Not another word,"_ Francis mouthed again after he pulled Mathieu into a hug so he wouldn't be able to see our father's withering gaze. You may not know it, but when France is angry with someone, he can be the scariest person in the world. (That, my friend, is the only similarity between Francis and Ludwig other than blond hair and blue eyes.)

"Y-You're right," Mathieu said, his shoulder's still trembling slightly as another tear ran down his cheek. "I'm sorry."

With that, Canada grabbed the remote and turned on the television. The notes would just have to wait.

* * *

_**Yay, translations!**_

_**Buon **__**(Italian) - Good.  
Amérique (French) - America  
**__**Isskay. (American) - It's okay.  
Guten tag, Amerika. (German) - Good day, America.  
Quoi? (French) - What?  
**__**Oh mon dieu... (French) - Oh my god.  
**__**Ja. (German) - Yes.  
**__**Je sais. (French) - I know.  
**__**Putain tout! (French) - D*mn it!  
Pourquoi lui? (French) - Why him?  
Je ne sais pas. (French) - I don't know.**_

_**So now I support two pairings that have to do with Prussia... *sweatdrop***_

_**Please review! :)**_

_**[Sorry for uploading this again. Document Manager hates my guts.]**_


	12. Chapter Ten

**Canada's P.O.V.**

"What do you mean, you can't find page twenty-seven?"

"I'm s-sorry, America," I stuttered. "I-I've looked everywhere."

"What if it is the solution to global warming?" my brother asked, making a big deal over something that could've been avoided had our father found the paper, which hadn't happened yet. "Great job, Mattie, now the hero doesn't know how to save the world."

"Hey, look, I found it!" Papa said as he pulled page twenty-seven from his stack of papers which had begun to resemble a pile now that we had been scrambling to put the notes in order for two hours. His eyes seemed to burn through Alfred as he glared at said American, causing my brother to scowl at me before I leaned back and managed to bang my head against the wall.

"Are they about global warming?" I asked as I tried to ignore the throbbing that came as a consequence of my mishap.

"Non," mon père replied as he continued to glower at Alfred with an expression of pure rage. What happened to my usually-[a-bit-too]-kind father that had been present ten short seconds ago? "They're about… who had the bright idea of allowing Italy to come near these with a pen? I love him like a son, but sometimes _je ne __comprends__ pas_ how his mind wanders so much in world meetings. He thinks about women too much." Alfred and I began to unsuccessfully attempt to stifle our laughter. "That might sound hypocritical of me," he added, "but at least I don't write about _che bella donna_ on notes that are meant for others."

"You're correct," America agreed. "You probably always write about _ç__a belle femme_."

"Alright, you've had your fun." Now the normal France was back. "Does anyone have page forty-six?"

* * *

**Germany's P.O.V.**

"Italy!" I yelled as I ran through his house, even though I knew that it would be of no use; his car was gone, and he was nowhere to be found. That could only mean one thing: he had left. Didn't he know that leaving his house wouldn't be the equivalent of leaving his headaches? Just because Romano felt like he could brave this illness and leave home without pain didn't mean that Italy could.

"Wait… Romano…" What was it that Romano had given Italy?

I instantly knew where Italy was going, but why he was going instead of just asking me to go to the pharmacy for him, I didn't know. What I did know was that he better buy some earplugs while he was shopping because he had no idea what he was in for when he got home.

* * *

**mon père (French) - my father**  
**je ne comprends pas (French) - I don't understand**  
**che bella donna (Italian) - that beautiful woman**  
**ça belle femme (French) - that beautiful woman**

**I feel like this was a bit OOC... please tell me what you think!  
I'm begging you, please review.**

**- BunnieGal**


	13. Chapter Eleven

**Mystery Person's P.O.V.**

Lithuania stopped outside the white door of Russia's house. He wasn't sure why – or _how__,_for that matter – but something told him that he should go to his former-captor's firm. Surely it was just suspicion, a disturbance in the atmosphere, and this thought almost made him go back to whence he came; however, just as he turned to leave, he heard the faint sound of a weeping girl. Toris leaned in and pressed his ear against the door in an attempt to hear exactly what was going on in there.

"-just like us!" Ukraine sobbed. "Ivan, do you know how thin the ice is that we're treading on?"

"Calm down, sestra_._" This childlike innocence could only belong to Ivan Braginski. Even then, something about the way he said it sent shivers down Lithuania's spine. Pretty much _everything _the Russian said sent shivers down Lithuania's spine. "Everything is going to be alright. They'll come to see that I'm the answer to their problems!"

"Ivan, what happens if England heals them? Have you even begun to consider how powerful Arthur's magic is? Or have you, but just underestimated it? For all I know, he could be listening in to us as we speak by using some kind of transportation spell."

"No one is in here."

"I meant outside! What if someone is listening?"

"No one is out there, either."

"If we're going to continue speaking about this matter any further I advise you to open the door this instant."

"I will, but you shouldn't worry so much."

For a split second Lithuania thought that he could've felt a tug, although he wasn't sure; his mind was racing too quickly for him to process anything from Ukraine's question about England's magic. Lithuania couldn't be sure, but it almost sounded like they could be talking about-

The act of crashing into a certain Russian interrupted the Lithuanian's thought process for just enough time for Toris to realize that he would be in big trouble. He knew what it was like to be under Ivan's wrath, and he did not need to live through that again. He still endured the emotional scars.

Instead of bearing some sort of horrible chastising, Lithuania was surprised to find that Ivan had simply taken him by the shoulders and led him inside, shutting the door when Lithuania fully entered and sitting him down on the couch when the two came to it. Looking the shorter man in the eyes, Russia asked softly, "You will not tell anyone, da?"

* * *

**Italy's P.O.V.**

I stepped inside my house that had surprisingly remained vacant – or so I thought, but that didn't matter right now. I had finally bought the medicine that would protect me from any more headaches as long as the dosage didn't run out. The fever couldn't be prevented, but at least I would be provided with some relief rather than none.

I smiled and began to hum _Marukaite Chikyuu_, the theme song to my life. It didn't matter what mood I was in – melancholy, so-so, or even happy, as I was right now – that song never failed to make my mood even better. As I placed the bag on the counter and removed the Excedrin I had bought, I heard a stirring noise coming from my living room. I hadn't heard anyone when I walked in, so I decided that it was just the vent.

"Now to get this thing open," I said to myself before I began a difficult struggle against the lid of the bottle. After two minutes of trying, I finally gave up with a sigh and said, "I wish Germany were here right now; he'd be able to help me. Why didn't I ask him to go out and buy this? Romano would be angry, but he's angry with me all the time anyway. Now I can get caught, and now _Germany _will be angry with me. That is, if he finds out. At least he isn't here right now to discover what I've done."

"How do you know that I'm not here?" Germany asked from behind my location in front of the table.

"G-Germany!" I exclaimed. "H-How much of that did you hear?"

"Every word," he replied, his face suddenly growing serious – almost as serious as it had been in my nightmare. After finding this out, he could decide to abandon me! What could I do without him, especially when I was sick? I decided that if I didn't want him to leave me, I should do everything I could to get on his good side, starting with listening to what he was saying. "Italy, did you even hear a word I said?"

I had failed my mission in a few seconds. How does one react to such a self-disappointment?

"Come again?"

Germany sighed and reiterated his question. "I asked why you didn't tell me that you were leaving."

"The same reason as what I said earlier – if Romano found out that you were spending money that he gave to me, even if you were buying something for me, it wouldn't end well at all."

"I was wondering what he gave to you," Germany said. "I guess I know now."

"Yep," I said with a nervous laugh. "Will you please help me open this?"

"Ja; before I do, though, you must promise me something."

"Yes?"

"You must promise that you will never leave this house for as long as you are ill. We wouldn't want other people catching this, now, would we?"

"I guess not," I replied.

"Guess?"

"You know what I meant."

"So… continue with the promise!"

"Yes, Doitsu, I promise not to leave the house as long as I am sick."

"Good," Germany remarked. "What would you like me to make for lunch?"

"Whatever sounds good to you is fine with me."

"Thanks, Italy, but I've already eaten."

"Oh," I replied. "Well, in that case, could you maybe fix some pasta?"

Ludwig smiled just a little before his face changed back to his normal serious expression. "Of course."

* * *

**I tried to make it a long chapter to make up for the last one, but then I was like, "Oh my gosh. That's a perfect place to stop. I can't keep doing three point of view changes." So, here it is.  
In case you're wondering (which I doubt that you are, but you might be), the plot twist was a last-minute thing. I was in bed, attempting to fall asleep when I thought, _Yes! Yes! That's perfect!_** **_Perfect!  
_****I hope I don't seem like I'm making Russia sound like a bad guy...****_  
_**

**Reviews are greatly appreciated!  
- BunnieGal**


	14. Chapter Twelve

**Hello, everyone. I have finally written a chapter that takes more than merely two minutes to read!  
****Before you read, however, I must warn you that this is written from Mystery Person's point of view again. I know that half of why I started this story in the first place was to see if I could write from different points of view, but I promise that next chapter will be different.  
**

**_Disclaimer: I do not own _Hetalia_, _The Avengers_, _The Lion King_, _Truth or Dare_, or _****Excedrin_ (which I forgot to "disclaim" last chapter._**

**Enjoy, dahlings! ^_^**

* * *

Canada sighed in frustration as he looked at the thermometer he had taken his temperature with, unaware that his father was behind him and shaking his head. The television had only entertained the two for so long before they'd both retired to their rooms to do some serious social networking. After checking his Facebook updates, Mathieu decided that since he hadn't yet, he'd go ahead and see if his fever had improved. The screen displayed the same temperature that it had before. Why hadn't his fever gone down yet? It didn't seem to have fluctuated at all that day; it remained the same 38.3 every time his father checked it. Now Mathieu had taken it, but the temperature still didn't budge. The Canadian began to wonder why he had even thought that who operated the thermometer would affect the temperature when someone behind him cleared their throat.

"Oh, Papa," Mathieu said after he had turned around. "I didn't see you there."

"Are you alright?" France asked, placing a hand on his son's very pale forehead. He nearly grabbed the thermometer out of Canada's hand and ran to check the batteries on that thing. The Canadian's forehead seemed to be warmer than it was earlier when Canada had been crying – Mathieu's temperature had skyrocketed during the episode – and, quite frankly, this worried Francis. Why was the thermometer claiming otherwise?

Francis's son suddenly sank to the ground, clutching his stomach; this alerted his father that perhaps the events taking place before his eyes were more important than getting a thermometer that functioned properly.

"Hey, guys, I have great—" America began before stopping right in front of his brother and crouching down next to said family member. "Mattie, what's wrong?"

Mathieu continued to stay silent for a few seconds before mumbling, "It hurts so much, Alfred." Another period of silence passed as France quietly gestured to America that he would change the batteries of the thermometer. Alfred didn't quite understand what Francis meant by pointing to the device and then pointing to the open doorway, but he nodded anyway as he saw that it had something to do with what was going on.

A few seconds after Francis had left the room, Mathieu continued. "It feels like my nation is being attacked."

Every Nation has a certain way to know if something bad is happening to their country. If it is something minor, it usually doesn't affect the personification at all; however, the Nation still knows. If something more important than that is going on, the even can affect the personification physically but without much harm done. That mainly depended on the personification's human strength him/herself, and the same applied when the personification caught a virus. Needless to say, they were usually immune to illness. (Everyone was still shocked that five nations were bedridden at the same time.)

When a country is being attacked by an enemy in war (and especially by terrorists), the Nation itself is affected greatly. Sometimes that means a stomachache, usually it means physical wounds as well, and sometimes it gets bad. _Really _bad. However, I won't go into detail about that.

"Why would anyone want to attack you?" Alfred asked.

"I was hoping you could answer that for me," Mathieu said as the slightest smile began to make its way onto his face. "I was also hoping that—" Now Canada was stopping his sentences, but for different reasons than America had.

"What does it feel like?" the American asked, even more worried now that his brother was squeezing his eyes shut in an attempt to hide tears. Mathieu had already cried enough today, and he usually never cried at all.

"Horrible," Canada muttered. "Like I'm about to throw up while everything in my body slowly rips itself apart."

Alfred flinched; he hadn't been expecting such a graphic reply. It made him sick to think that his brother was going through so much pain that he could say that with a straight face. If there was one thing France, America, and England could tell you about Canada, it was that said nation sugarcoated everything. He never told anything like it was, and when he did, he quickly apologized afterwards – even if what he said didn't seem to have rude intentions in the slightest.

France entered the room with a different thermometer – he had also made sure to change the batteries and put new ones in this time – and handed it to Canada, who turned it on and stuck it under his tongue, still clutching his stomach all the while. The trio waited in yet another silence until the thermometer made several high-pitched noises. Francis grabbed it from his son's mouth and read the number on it. Both America and France stared wide-eyed at the screen, Francis more alarmed than Alfred; the Frenchman actually knew what the temperature meant, while the American was only able to guess the Canadian's temperature. Unfortunately for Canada and France but fortunately for America, that guess was an understatement. Alfred would have been even more terrified than he was now had he known Mathieu's exact fever.

"Alfred, can you help Mathieu to his bed while I make a phone call?"

"Sure," Alfred replied, preparing himself to carry his brother before Mathieu stood on his own, shyly mumbling something about being able to walk but thanking his father anyway.

As he made his way to his bed and lay down, he couldn't help but wonder why this was happening to him and not Alfred. He didn't _want _it to happen to Alfred, but it still made him curious. Perhaps he would never know. What had even caused this illness in the first place?

His thought process was interrupted as France's cat, Fabien, gracefully jumped onto Canada's stomach, causing said nation to sit up quickly in pain before lying down again… not without worrying Alfred even more. "You might not want to be near me," he warned. France's cat looked up at the Canadian with wide eyes. "I've got a fever."

The feline looked at Mathieu with an expression of wonder on his face before nuzzling Canada's hand, a sign that he had heard what the northern country had said but didn't care and only wanted affection. Smiling, the Canadian accepted this request and was rewarded with a squee-worthy cuddling moment, courtesy of the small, white lump of fur that nuzzled Mathieu with his soft whiskers. Somehow, the country felt that – although five nations were sick and his condition certainly wasn't getting any better – everything would be fine.

Alfred pulled out his cell phone to get a picture of the adorable moment only to receive a text the second he clicked the 'Camera' button. He sighed and clicked the notification to reply, his eyes widening a few seconds afterward as the text loaded. This had to be a sick joke played by one of the nations. While America was usually one for witticisms and pranks, this one wasn't very funny – especially not for him. How could anyone alert someone of the future of the near future of his or her country and remain anonymous while doing so? It did not make sense. It didn't make sense at all.

Francis walked into the bedroom, suddenly horrified at the expression Alfred wore. Not once had France witnessed the North American so worried and disturbed, and America's facial expression continued to grow more fearful by the second. Canada also noticed the sudden change in his brother's demeanor – not that he had been paying attention, but the American usually wasn't so terrified – and quickly asked him what was wrong. Alfred didn't reply but handed the phone to Mathieu, his hands quaking during the process.

"Is there something you two aren't telling me?" Francis asked, not really suspecting the two to be doing anything wrong but just trying to get answers so he could figure out what exactly was going on. Mathieu's face paled even more than it already had as he read the message once and then twice. Certainly no one knew his country's fate before he did. That was impossible!

By now, France was seriously worried. For both of his sons to be stunned into silence – especially America – was a very rare occurrence. Had that even happened before? Francis couldn't be certain, but he knew that there were more pressing matters at this moment. Dropping the subject, the Frenchman walked over to Mathieu's bed and pried the phone from his son's clutches, skimming over the text. Was there something he was missing? Why were both of his sons so traumatized by this? It wasn't anything uncommon, just someone trying to scare people. Francis searched his mind for the word Alfred would use – _trolling_, wasn't it? – and turned to his son who had coined the phrase.

"Why is this so frightening to both of you?" he gently inquired. "This is just some person who is trying to get a rise out of people."

"Papa," the son in temporary possession of the feline said with a trembling voice, "This is more than just a text. It's a threat to our countries!"

"How?"

"Did you _not _just read the text?" Alfred asked. "Read it out loud for both of us to hear."

Francis sighed. "'The only way to restore your health is to fix your economies. You are both skating on thin ice without the assistance you need or the common sense to vacate the frozen pond before your stronghold gives out without warning. If you do not have either, I fear that neither of you will make it for much longer; enemies are closer than you think. Sincerely, Anonymous.' I don't—"

"Can you not see that it's someone planning an attack on us?" America asked in a voice that was louder than usual. "What if they're right? What if our countries will fall, dragging us with it?" Alfred gulped. "What if the United States of America will become the United States of Failure?"

"Now you're just being too dramatic," Francis reasoned.

"Maybe so, but how do you know that it isn't true?" the American asked, his voice cracking. He seemed to be on the verge of tears, but he tried his best not to let it show. He couldn't cry in front of Canada _or _France. What would the two think of him then? Worse yet, what did those two think of him _now_? He felt that he had blown it already – he couldn't earn their respect back after losing his grip on his emotions. He was supposed to be the _hero_! Now what was he, the damsel in distress?

_Woah,_ Alfred thought. _Since when did my thoughts get so dark?_

Francis and Mathieu had noticed Alfred's change of attitude but had no idea what to do or say; it wasn't very often that the young man became so depressed. Both francophones knew that it was crucial for the American's feelings that they say something, _anything _to distract him from the current situation, but they were unable to come up with anything before America continued on his own.

"I know I've always talked about being the hero and everything, but now…" He trailed off. "Now, I have no idea what to do. If the text is right—"

"The text is _not correct,_ Alfred," France interrupted with a stern voice. It was all America could do to continue to sit in his spot and refrain from strangling the European country.

"_If_ the text is correct," America began through clenched teeth. "Mathieu and I will die, and there's nothing anyone can do to prevent it."

Mathieu sighed. "Have you no faith in your people?"

"I never said that!" Alfred retorted, quite flustered at this point. "I'm just saying that no one can prevent our downfall."

"_I'm _just saying that our _people_ can. Our citizens are very proud of their country; they wouldn't allow us to die without a fight. Especially your people."

Alfred squinted, doing his best impression of the, 'Not sure if [insert first possibility here], or [insert second possibility here].' meme. He became a living, breathing version of that meme with his next sentence.

"I'm not sure if that was a compliment or an insult, but I'm going to go ahead and take it as a compliment."

"Good, because that was supposed to be a compliment and I don't feel like bearing the rage of Alfred."

"I'm almost completely sure that _that_ statement was an insult."

"More or less," Mathieu responded, causing America to smile and feeling thankful that he had gotten Alfred's mind away from what had been troubling him. The Canadian looked at his father as if he was requesting help; to his relief, his father continued the animated discussion they were now having by changing the subject altogether. That technically changed the discussion they were having to another one, but who's counting?

"So, which one of you two are up for a movie?" Although France wasn't one for superhero movies, he still possessed some in preparation for the nights when America randomly showed up at the Frenchman's doorstep and asked him if he could spend the night. The reason he provided was believable at first – Arthur and Alfred _did _get into tiffs during which a worked-up Englishman threatened to do things that he threatened to do some things that concerned Alfred, and Arthur would never visit Francis's house by choice – but it began to become quite a habit. The first night America had come over, France had suggested that they watch a movie to get the younger Nation's mind off the argument. Alfred agreed, as long as he could choose. France allowed the compromise and the two proceeded to watch a copy of Star Wars that France had received from the American for his birthday; the cycle had repeated itself nearly every two weeks. Once Alfred had even brought Mathieu over and invented a story about how the two were worried that Francis might have died since the meeting that had taken place the day before. France hadn't believed it, but he was still happy to see his two sons again. At times, he wondered why America didn't just call him and ask him to come over instead of taking a plane to his house; he never dared to ask for fear that he would have to listen to Alfred complain about how his alien friend always invited people over. Needless to say, the Frenchman thought that Alfred was a _bit_ delusional.

"Of course, dude!" America exclaimed as he jumped out of his bed. "What movie are we gonna watch?"

Francis and Mathieu smiled at the American's sudden burst of excitement as Francis told Alfred that it was up to "notre petit canadien" this time, since he wasn't feeling well. Mathieu's face lit up for a moment as he considered the possibilities before catching a glimpse at Alfred, who was currently pointing to a copy of Avengers he had grabbed from the cabinet and grinning so widely that his cheeks could burst at any moment. Mathieu smiled again at his younger brother's childish-yet-lovable display of immaturity before pretending to think.

"I'm not sure," he told his father with a gleam in his eye. France caught on to the hint and began to read the titles of the movies in the cabinet, stopping at _The Lion King_ for extra effect. The Canadian had watched it once and found it to be quite entertaining, even if it was a movie for children. (He had confessed this earlier when Alfred had suggested that they play _Truth or Dare_ during commercials.) His father continued to read the list of nearly infinite titles before finally coming to the last one, which Alfred was currently holding in his hand. After two minutes of waiting, the American was ready to explode in a fit of excitement and anticipation. Neither Francis nor Mathieu had seen Alfred so excited, and that was saying a lot; the North-American country was always very animated at World Meetings… so much so that his excitement seemed to be contagious, which – again – was saying a lot. Even Ludwig smiled a bit when the cheerful Nation was giving a speech.

"I think I'll go with _The Avengers_."

"Way to go, Mattie!"

* * *

***collapses onto ground* I wrote the last six paragraphs at one o' clock in the morning... please don't kill me...**

**No translations? WHAT?**

_**Reviews are greatly appreciated, though not mandatory! :)**_


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